Love, Sociopath Style
by Fantome
Summary: Sherlock likes to experiment on John in his sleep. John has a few experiments of his own. (Do not try this at home. Just don't.) A cracked romance.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Love, Sociopath Style

Author: fantomeq

Word Count: about 500 Rating: R

Warnings: darkish Sherlock, sociopaths Pairing: Sherlock/John Summary: Sherlock likes to experiment on John in his sleep.  
>Disclaimers: The usual.<p>

It starts, as all things do, with an experiment. All week Sherlock initiates physical contact with John and catalogues his responses. He starts with brush of the fingertips, a hand on the shoulder. John seems to be growing more comfortable with physical contact now that his PTSD is waning. One night John falls asleep on the sofa while watching telly, slumps over, his head just resting against Sherlock's leg. John gives a twitch, head rubbing against Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock gives John's hair an experimental touch. It is coarse, prickles through Sherlock's trousers, like guard hairs in poorly processed angora. John is allergic to angora. The sensation becomes intolerable, and Sherlock looks at the Union Jack pillow, tips it against John's face for a moment. Polyester fibers in the lungs, burst capillaries in the eyes. Even with a good seal, suffocation would take at least four minutes. John has excellent upper body strength and lung capacity. Sherlock revises the time estimate considerably upward, rights the pillow. John has noticed nothing.

Sherlock leans down to study John's face. His brow is creased, his respiration steady but slightly elevated. He is not experiencing rapid eye movement. He has a detached eyelash with intact follicle on his left cheek. Sherlock moves closer, holding his breath so as not to alert the doctor, presses a kiss against John's mouth. John's lips are chapped. He has forgotten to brush his teeth, having fallen asleep on the sofa. The tension in John's forehead eases. The next day, John smiles twice at breakfast.

After a long day at the surgery, John falls asleep on the couch again. Noting the signs of sleepiness, Sherlock moves to the chair and watches John lose consciousness. John's neck is extended, exposed. Sherlock wonders how much Zolpidem it would take to keep him unconscious through any stimuli, considers forging John's signature for the prescription-having a doctor around has been most convenient. He wonders if John may have the side effect of somnambulation, reconsiders the LD-50, discards the idea. Sherlock looks at the vulnerable neck again, suddenly envisions his hands crushing and bruising. No, he still needs John. Sherlock closes his eyes, takes a slow breath and counts to ten. The urge passes.

For the next step, Sherlock goes without sleep for three days and ensures that John gets little rest as well. Sherlock commandeers the sofa, throws an ennui tantrum as John leaves for work, and stays there all day, waiting. In the evening, as John is climbing the stairs in the hall, Sherlock pretends to be asleep, his breath controlled and heart rate lowered. Sherlock doesn't stir as John places his keys on the table with extra care. This is the perfect opportunity for John to catch up on sleep, but John doesn't go upstairs.

Instead, John kneels next to the sofa, regarding him. Sherlock's neck is exposed, vulnerable, his lips parted. Sherlock imagines his own expression through closed eyes. John places the Union Jack pillow under Sherlock's head, brushes an errant curl to one side. John's fingers rest on Sherlock's forehead, as if checking for fever. They linger. Sherlock feels something uncoil inside of him, something deeply possessive, something warm but not burning. He wonders if this is love.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't intend to fall asleep. The edges of his mind are now decidedly fuzzy, and he notices a deep clenching pang in his chest that he thinks might be hunger. Yes, it's probably Tuesday, so hunger.

His body fails to respond at first, so he rebuilds his internal world, starting with the palace. His back presses against the stone flags, ice seeping through his skin. High ceilings arch above, the sound of rushing water outside, but no ping of hail against the stained glass nor raindrops trickling through the cracks in the spandrels. He really must shore up the dome this season. Everywhere he notes signs of wear. Why is there crazing in the frescoes?

The room should be empty, the contents not rebuilt yet. Why is there another feature below the apse? A great stone altar, ornately carved with angels and demons, its top stained an irregular rust colour. He attempts to erase it, to paint over it, but it does not budge. Finally he ignores it, rebuilding his music area.

Echoing against the arches, Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor goes round and round, twelve times. He sets his thoughts to transcribing it to another key before he is awake enough to stir his limbs.

"Had a nice rest, then?" John asks, closing his newspaper from his spot in his armchair. Sherlock blinks. Glaring light slants through the front windows of the flat, half ten already. A cup of tea is within reach; Sherlock recalls the sound of rushing water that had intruded upon his palace.

"Why, yes, John, I did I have a nice rest," John prompts him. "Also, thank you for not waking me early, and thank you for the tea?"

Sherlock lets out a grunt and rolls over. He's not in the mood for following John's little social scripts.

John kneels down next to him, presses the teacup between his fingers. Sherlock sits up, stares deep into his eyes. John does not blink. Sherlock pushes back a brief feeling of vertigo. "I could kill you, you know," he says. The china is fragile beneath his fingers and the Orange Pekoe scalds on the way down as he takes a sip and replaces it on the table.

John stiffens, really the only logical response, of course, what else would Sherlock expect him to do?

"I've thought about it," Sherlock's stupid mouth continues without his permission.

"I'm certain you have." John pauses, and Sherlock's heart stops beating for an instant. But John looks curious. "Why haven't you done it, then?"

And that is when through no conscious effort Sherlock felt himself bridging the gap between them, and his lips press against John's. John lets in a little gasp—-oh God, Sherlock's touch is revolting him when even his words do not.

The words don't stop. "Sometimes I want to kill Anderson just for looking at you."

Is that a giggle John is suppressing? "Well. That's really-"

Sherlock finds himself propelled to the door, turning the lock, blocking the exit. His body is doing things without conscious thought, and this is never a good sign, never, not John.

John looks up at him, the same air of slim tolerance he gives when Sherlock, distracted, leaves the body parts out on the counter too long during a double shift at the surgery and the stench of decay takes over the flat.

And Sherlock knows precisely how long it will take for John's body to smell like that. Not that Sherlock could ever be distracted away from John, arresting as he is, free to explore every bit of what makes John unique.

A desperate voice rises again in Sherlock- no, John won't be unique anymore, dead. John will be just like the rest of them, bits and pieces of forensic evidence, and he can't put John back together again; he needs John as he is. Sherlock tries to count to ten with a brain turned to panicked static.

Sherlock then backs John against the locked door, John's patience faltering. He presses his nose against John's neck, against the pulse in his jugular, so strong Sherlock can feel it vibrate in his skull. Sherlock places his hand over the pulse, lightly, his fingers aching, and he feels his body tremble in time with it. John's scent soaks into Sherlock's skin, leaving him slightly drunk and flushed.

John licks his lips. "I don't know whether to be flattered, or-"

Sherlock can't bear to hear the rest. He presses his mouth to John's again. "Stop talking," he rumbles. Crushing pain is gripping his lungs, warring with the cold hunger deep in his gut. He can't remember the last time he felt so acutely alone, and yet his body is so close to John's.

John tips his head to the side, furrows his brow, and normally Sherlock could see his thoughts in vivid detail, but right now his brain is fractured. John takes his hand. John leads him to the couch.

John is still holding his hand, a hint of sticky sweat between their palms.

Sherlock's eyes are now riveted to their clasped fingers. The edges of his vision go black, and it's less terrifying to imagine that John is not attached to the hand.

Sherlock does not know what will happen.

John sucks in a small breath, makes a quizzical expression. "We really need to work on your declarations of love."

Love.

Sherlock feels like he's been stabbed through the heart. He can feel his ribs cracking, feel John insinuating himself forcefully there, and it hurts like nothing he's ever felt before. He shudders, and his eyes roll back into his head. He feels as if his skull will explode, wants to dash out his own brains to relieve the pressure. His head thuds against the back of the couch, and he retreats.

Chopin's Nocturne begins to play again, out of tune and grating. Across the altar of his mind palace-turned-cathedral spreads fresh blood, and the frescoes and the lead-framed glass bear images of John. John smiling patiently, John pointing a gun, John on the cross, bleeding with wounds inflicted by Sherlock.

Too stupid to run away with his life intact.

Sherlock opens his eyes to reality, a cluttered flat so pedestrian yet so constant and warm.

And John-

John straddles him. "You started this, you know. You asked me to come live with you. Why do you keep pushing me away?"

John presses against him, and the air leaves Sherlock's lungs.

"I know you," John says, and how could he know, how could his little brain possibly comprehend the entire religion devoted to John which has sprung up of its own accord in Sherlock's mind palace?

Sherlock traces his fingers along the radial artery of John's right wrist, convinced that the poison inside Sherlock will welt up the skin there, draw crimson drops of stigmata out of someone so pure, and yet the touch is soaking something cold out of his own heart. Warmth blossoms again, and Sherlock chokes back a sob.

"Christ," John says, "have things really been that bad for you?"

And Sherlock prays with all of his desperate soul that John won't say the words that always come next: pathetic freak, no one wants you. It doesn't really matter how much he's tried to armour himself, it still hurts.

He feels a sudden urge to run, but John holds him tighter, wraps his arms around Sherlock's slim shoulders. Sherlock can get free, Sherlock knows precisely where to apply pressure on John's weak shoulder, he won't be held here, he won't-

Fingers are running though his hair, and a soft voice says, "You may be infuriating, but I don't know what I'd do without you."

Shock floods through Sherlock; the pressure in his head washes away. The frescoes are again freshly painted, and the strings in his mind resonate with clarity. The spilt blood flows backward into their beating hearts. Sherlock lays prostrated on the altar with John above him, John holding him and soaking into him, John tearing him apart and stitching him back together with precision, John filling all the gaps in his heart until-

White flashes before his eyes, the sound of rushing water fills his ears as Sherlock comes. John gasps above him, breathing hard, and pulses inside him. His eyelashes flutter against Sherlock's bare throat. His flushed skin nearly burns to the touch. Sherlock memorizes and catalogs every sensation so that he may live in this moment forever.


	3. Chapter 3

At the top of Sherlock's mind palace, a tower twists toward the heavens, its peak obscured by white clouds. Sherlock stands on the main roof, staring up at a thin ray of sunlight until his eyes burn and then turns down to the formless landscape below. Grey mist roils around the base of the palace, the only sound a rush of static too uniform to be wind or ocean waves. Sherlock has never observed his mind from the outside before.

His inner sanctum is no longer his own, is now littered with images of John, continuously vomited out of his heart. Thoughts of his lover are tearing his concentration to shreds. He has come here to hide but finds himself pondering instead.

The clouds part, and the sun blinds him. He shades his eyes, the sunlight rendering his skin a translucent orange, the bones within clearly visible. He gazes below, tries to place an oak tree here or there, and fails. The grey mist takes on the appearance of colorless blood swirling down a drain.

John must become fully aware of what he is doing to Sherlock... and what Sherlock may do to him. His options are clear. He could show remorse by inflicting injury upon himself, or confess and explain everything. His third option, a show of aggression, had already failed, gone catastrophically pear shaped, but in an ultimately pleasant way, he had to admit.

Having spent so much time plotting the murder of someone he seems to be in love with, he should surely be punished. Really he ought to inflict every method of destruction he'd thought of on himself as penance. He can't strangle himself, so a little modification is in order. A few dozen Ambien will render him unconscious, and then he can use a noose or violin string or a plastic bag on his head, perhaps slitting his wrists first. Bit messy for John and Mrs. Hudson, so maybe the bathroom would be suitable.

Bit not good, Sherlock, nags John's voice in his mind.

Writing an apology in his own blood might be a bit overdramatic, but it would get the point across. He'd have to start that bit early so he wouldn't pass out in the middle and leave something a bit vague that Anderson would decide was German. Sherlock couldn't easily think of a way to tie in crucifixion, maybe a Saint Andrew's Cross, but that is more commonly used for an entirely different purpose, and it would be difficult to attach himself to it. But not impossible. John would surely ask questions if Sherlock begins construction of a saltire in the bathtub, and then he might be forced to explain the whole thing after all.

But if he confesses, he can never deny the truth. If he confesses, John will surely leave, as any sane person would, and he can save himself the pain by going straight to the suicide.

In his heart, he knows he needs to confess. Maybe John will shoot him for the trouble.

-

Sherlock is kneeling by the sofa, preparing his display, neatly organized in a grid. On the coffee table, he places one bottle of Ambien, a large transparent plastic bag, a broken violin A string, the Union Jack pillow, his favorite knife used for organizing correspondence, recently sharpened, and his black gloves for strangulation. As an afterthought he threw in a few nails of appropriate crucifixion diameter.

John enters with a curious look, no doubt assuming this is for a case he hasn't heard about yet.

Sherlock launches into his speech, his voice a bit coarse with fear. "John, I owe you an explanation for what I said yesterday. You need to know why you should leave me immediately. I'm broken. The last thing I want to be is dangerous to you."

"Don't be an idiot," John says and starts to walk off to make tea.

"These are the ways I was planning to kill you," Sherlock says, and John stops, executes an about face and returns. "Honesty is important, so I'm telling you. That's good, right?" Of course John does not look happy. "I was highly tempted to demonstrate—don't look at me like that, I meant on myself. To show that I'm sorry."

"Still not good." John rubs his forehead. Sherlock represses the urge to bury his face in the pillow like a child. His ears are burning, and his throat hurts with the effort of trying to control his voice.

John's eyes flicker to the pillow. "Oh yes, because breathing is boring. You idiot. Really, you need a nice hobby. How about bee keeping?"

Sherlock scoffs. "In the city? And I hardly think Mrs. Hudson would approve-"

John laughs. "You keep unpreserved body parts in the kitchen. You think she'd disapprove of a few pets?"

"Pets?" Sherlock asks in disgust. "Bees are hardly pets. For one, they're useful."

"Never mind." John shakes his head, sinks onto the sofa. He holds up a hand. "Just give me a minute." He takes a deep breath. "Exactly how many times have you thought about killing me? Plotted out in detail, I mean?"

Sherlock mutters, "Fourteen."

To his utter shock, John laughs. "I thought about killing you at least fourteen times for that head in the fridge. Every bloody time I think of it, in fact."

"Even now?" How could he possibly be joking?

"Not wholeheartedly. It's a lot of bother, really." John shrugs. "Sherlock, I own a gun. There isn't much need for intricate plotting, should the need arise." John scrutinizes him for a long time, licking his upper lip once, in concentration. Sherlock is certain he does not like where this conversation is going, not that he enjoyed it from the beginning. "Answer me this with utter honesty. Have you ever killed anyone before?"

Sherlock frowns. Any idiot knows not to answer that question, but this is John, and this conversation is supposed to be a confession. "That depends."

"Not sent to the electric chair in America, I mean with your own hands."

Oh yes, John is not going to like this. "I may have recently executed a few terrorists in Karachi."

"Karachi." John shakes his head again. His face is turning red. He takes a deep breath. "How the hell-"

"A scimitar." Oddly, this doesn't seem to be the answer John was looking for.

John soldiers on. "Ah. Bit messy, those. Put up any resistance, did they?"

"Not especially. Blade was sharp." He added, in case that's not what John meant, "I took them on while in disguise."

"Did you enjoy it?"

Oh, how he had wanted to, but it happened so fast. "Didn't look. Too busy running away. They were about to execute Irene."

"Irene."

John's expression is livid, a vein bulging in his forehead, so Sherlock assures him, "I would have done the same for you." Strange how the mention of Irene enrages him when a confession of planned homicide does not.

"I have done for you," John says, tight-lipped.

Sherlock has botched this up again. "Should I have done for you, by now?"

John is silent.

He gestures at his coat and scarf. "There are places in the city where at night, statistically, the odds are quite high."

"Are you suggesting we get ourselves assaulted on purpose?" John clarifies.

Sherlock nods eagerly, wondering where John's enthusiasm has gone to.

"You haven't killed anyone for me because you've never had to. This is a _good_ thing. It's normally good when one's life is not in danger."

Normally. John is decidedly not normal either. Sherlock waits, teeth clenched, heart pounding, a bit nauseous.

"Right," John goes on. "That American you threw out the window. He didn't die, but that was a bit more difficult?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "He was surprisingly resilient."

"You enjoyed it, of course."

"Yes," Most certainly. Sherlock looks down at his lap, terminates the memory before it plays through and shows on his face. Not good, once again.

"You could have shot him instead. He hurt Mrs. Hudson," John prompted.

"Yes," Sherlock looks up again, nods earnestly. "Yes, he did. Not a nice man at all."

John kneels before Sherlock, his eyes steely. "Then answer me this," he grits out. "What have I ever done to you to deserve such a punishment?"

Sherlock's brain blanks out and his mouth begins babbling. "It's not like that. It's not. I just want you with me always, I want you to stay, I want to know why you are the way you are, because I can't very well find out myself why I'm broken the way I am, but maybe you could, if you felt up to performing a vivisection, oh no, you look upset, perhaps just some functional magnetic resonance imaging at Barts, but it needs to be off my official medical record-"

John grips his shoulders and forces eye contact. Sherlock tries not to blink, even though it feels like John is boring into his skull. "Sherlock. Let me be very clear on this. Neither one of us is killing or mutilating or vivisecting, or doing anything of the sort, to the other. At all."

Sherlock shrinks. "But what if-"

"Non-negotiable."

"Hostages or euthanasia!" Sherlock blurts out, since John's not going to give him a chance for full explanations.

John actually rolls his eyes. "The first duty of a hostage is to escape."

"I know that. I'm quite good at that, but I mean what if we are in a situation where we are forced-"

"That's not going to happen." John sighs. "No one is going to torture us into a murder-suicide. And if they did, I doubt you'd be in any condition to enjoy it."

Sherlock presses his lips together. Best to say nothing at all to that.

"We can discuss euthanasia in thirty or forty years."

Sherlock tries to hide the way his heart lights up inside. John is staying. John will stay with him for thirty years or more, without coercion.

John gestures at the objects at the table. "As you well know, I own a gun. Did you consider using that?"

Sherlock shakes his head. While he might confiscate it from time to time for shooting at walls, it feels wrong somehow to use something so deeply personal as John's own gun to end his life.

John holds up the Union Jack pillow. "Really. Seriously?"

"Still prattling on about that, are you?" Sherlock mumbles.

John tosses it violently behind him. Something crashes in the kitchen, and Sherlock flinches in embarrassment. "You can't win in a fair fight with me, you know. Remember this?" John sweeps behind him and wraps his arm around Sherlock's neck, compressing his jugular. Sherlock's head turns light, hyperaware of the pulse slowing in his throat.

This is hardly the first time he's been choked, but it's the first that he felt he owed his attacker penance. Sherlock sinks back into John's chest, feels the heat soak through his own silk shirt. John seems surprised, presses harder to encourage him to fight. Sherlock's blood rushes in his ears. He closes his eyes, lolls his head to one side, and blacks out next to the sofa.

Sherlock is back in the sanctuary, once again upon the stone altar. Its once polished surface is eroded and checked with gouges. The spandrels are cracking, and water is seeping through, but the dozens of candles remain lit. The stained glass images are losing their saturation. The lead is corroding. He can't bring himself to look at the statues of John.

He holds a curved knife, the ivory handle well worn to the shape of his hand. He splays his fingers over his heart, presses to locate his intercostal spaces. The pain in his heart is so acute that his breath is labored, and his chest is a crushing weight. This cannot possibly become more painful. He aligns his fingers as a guide. He raises his wrist, and he lets out a scream even before the blade pierces his skin.

Brightness. Somehow Sherlock is whole again, and John is with him. Sherlock's face is covered with tears, or rain, and his chest is covered with blood, or rain, and he presents his heart to John. John smiles and says that it's the most brilliant thing he has ever received. He takes it and kisses it, leaving his mouth reddened.

Sherlock lifts an alabaster hand and feels nothing beating beneath his breast.

Sherlock is now on the sofa in the flat, covered with a blanket. John is taking Sherlock's pulse and looking at his watch. "I'm really very sorry about that," John says briskly, "but I had to put that idea out of your mind. While you were out, I was looking at these methods of killing, and I'm noticing something in common between all of them."

Sherlock stares blankly. He has a raging headache. Perhaps his brain isn't fully functioning yet.

"They're all very intimate, don't you think? Even this prescription bottle." John holds up the Zolpidem. "You forged my signature to get it."

"I assure you I don't intend to use it. I'd already discounted the idea. I had to obtain some for this display." He gestures at the table.

John pockets it. "Handy to have around. Could force you to get some sleep every now and again. Odd choice, that. Quite a large amount required to be lethal. Am I to assume you merely intended to make me black out? Why use a legal drug, I wonder?"

"You don't approve of the illegal kind," Sherlock says slowly.

John laughs. "How considerate! I wouldn't want you to use anything illegal to help you kill me."

"Intimate," Sherlock echoes, frowning. He still feels a step behind, which is highly disconcerting.

"Yes. Rather than efficient or even very clever, you have to admit."

One time when Sherlock was a child, he had been caught breaking into his father's study to return the skull he had borrowed. He had only wanted to touch it, to compare it to the size of his own juvenile cranium, to talk to it a little. He felt precisely the same way at this moment, embarrassed, guilty, caught. He still wondered why was he branded the freak when the skull belonged to his father first?

"What do you plan to do with me after I am dead?" John goes on.

Sherlock's face burns. He had thought of sleeping with John, perhaps carrying a piece of him in his pocket at all times. In reality the disposal would need to be thorough.

"I think you know without resorting to an autopsy that my internal organs are nothing special, the same as everyone else's. Do you intend to eat me?" John's gaze is level, curious even, hardly what one would expect for this sort of conversation, but then that's what's special about John, isn't it?

Sherlock makes a face at the idea of cannibalism. John looks pleased.

"Of course not. You're not at all fond of eating. Although I expect if you were, you'd be making plans of that sort." John clasps Sherlock's clammy hands. John's are hot and dry and firm and as steady as if he were holding a scalpel or gun. "I know this isn't about being clever. Maybe it's about being aggressive, territorial, but it's not really about killing me."

"I believe you've already tried to say that." _We really need to work on your declarations of love_, John had said, and now there is so much turmoil in Sherlock that he thinks his aching head will explode. He distracts himself by thinking that John's ideas so frequently have merit. Perhaps even eating would not be so boring if it involved John offering parts of himself for consumption.

"Yes, but-" John chuckles, "I think you hadn't thought it all through. For once. Yesterday when we..." He pats the sofa cushion a little awkwardly.

"Had sex," Sherlock finishes flatly. A quaint term for something that nearly destroyed decades of mind palace architecture.

"Yes. Right. Was that intimate for you?"

Sherlock's eyes flutter shut briefly. His body fills with heat and for a moment he feels like he's going to black out again. "Oh god yes."

John's mouth quirks. "I take it you would enjoy doing it again?"

"Yes," Sherlock stutters. So juvenile. Why was this topic so hard to discuss? The entire world was completely obsessed with sex, and he could barely admit that he enjoyed yesterday.

"Best if I'm alive for that," John says. "Much nicer that way. Now that that's settled..." He leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock's.

John smells like tea and mint toothpaste. He feels... indescribable. Sherlock's heart doesn't hurt this time. He lets out a sigh, and his shoulders sag back onto the sofa. He's deeply aware of the presence next to him but fully grounded in his own body this time. No need to retreat elsewhere, overwhelmed and terrified. He's still shaking, but it feels safe this time. This time they have all the time in the world.

He unbuttons John's shirt, rests his hand on the scar on John's shoulder. He traces the edges of it with his fingers, the shape more complex than a simple exit wound due to multiple surgeries and infection. "I'm grateful..." His voice cracks. "I'm grateful you lived, John. I'm grateful that you're here with me."

John's eyes shine with wetness and he clears his throat. He tugs off Sherlock's sleeve, traces the scars of track marks on his veins. "I am too," he says. "Lestrade told me what it used to be like for you, when he first met you."

"Things were bad," Sherlock said.

John closed his eyes. "The same for me."

"I assumed as much. Your therapist-"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

John's hands slipped down Sherlock's pants, and his vision went white.

-

(Outtake:)

"You never told me what the nails were for, Sherlock."

"How would you feel about a Saint Andrew's Cross in the flat?"

"Straps, not nails," John said automatically.

"Obviously."


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock is in hour twelve of rebuilding his mind palace, having found a proper reconciliation between the old palace and the new cathedral. He is faintly aware of John calling his name, probably wanting him to do something tedious like eat food or throw away his mould collection or buy milk.

A hand presses against his cheek, and the sensory intrusion is an electric shock to his spine, jerking him from his reverie. His eyes flutter open.

"Are you all right, Sherlock?" John pushes a platter of Mrs Hudson's biscuits toward him along with a cup of Darjeeling. John is wearing the same shirt from yesterday, having formed an emotional attachment to it, although he has shaved, no doubt hoping for more physical contact from Sherlock.

Sherlock takes the smallest bite he can without being accused of faking. The sugar burns on the way down his esophagus. It was meant to be delicious, but his transport is not eager.

"I know your brain doesn't work that slowly, so I have to assume you're avoiding me. Time to talk about it."

Sherlock scowls and stares into his cup. The liquid ripples, and he can see a dim reflection of the sun in the amber liquid. It would be an interesting way of viewing an eclipse.

John moves over to his armchair across the room. "Let's say I'm not home and you're talking to me anyway?"

Sherlock grunts, takes a sip of tea. It's tepid, which is revolting, but his throat feels like he has swallowed a dessicant, so he continues drinking.

"I know you've been thinking. It's impossible for you to stop. Here's a challenge. Tell me in five words or less."

Idiot. Sherlock raises his eyes to the ceiling and enunciates, as if to a small child, "You don't take me seriously." He turns to John and glares, willing him to understand without hours of boring explanation. Fortunately he does, because he is John, and when Sherlock is feeling at his most desperate John always understands.

John crunches a chocolate biscuit. The crumbs on his shirt show he has already had three while waiting for Sherlock to awaken. "Because I don't buy into your 'high functioning sociopath' self-diagnosis?"

"There was a so-called professional involved," Sherlock refuted.

"Then he was a bloody idiot. I'm quite certain since you appended 'high functioning' to it, you know the truth."

Sherlock stares, mind whirling. Mycroft had told. Mycroft said he would not tell. No, John was a bit observant in his own way. He had been respectful of Sherlock's sensory needs, most of the time, and tolerant of most of Sherlock's interests. He had been gentle when correcting social gaffes. He hadn't told everyone, or that look, that pitying look would have replaced the disgust and fear on Donovan's face. "Autism has nothing to do with this conversation," he says, redirecting.

"Sherlock, I've never told anyone you aren't a sociopath, but other people have figured it out."

Sherlock bites down hard on a peanut butter biscuit. Lestrade. It had to be Lestrade. John and Lestrade had lunch together last month, and Sherlock had noticed Lestrade regarding him silently in a peculiar way afterward. At the time, Sherlock had blamed it on the ligature marks on his wrists from the bondage experiment, but perhaps there was more to Lestrade's expression. "Fine."

"Don't worry. Your reputation is safe. I know you're a mad wanker and a dick. I've never felt sorry for you for an instant."

Sherlock groans and throws himself back on the sofa. He presses the Union Jack pillow over his face and punches it repeatedly.

"Oh," the doctor says, cottoning on to the point of the conversation.

He groans and inhales a wisp of low micron recycled polyester fluff. It is pleasantly dark beneath the pillow, and the rustle of John's trousers is muffled. He presses harder and seals the pillow around his mouth, coarse against his lips. Sherlock really should have followed through with his plan for penance. Why had he condemned himself to a lifetime of "talking about relationships?"

The sofa cushion dips disconcertingly as John sits next to him. A cold waft of air leaks under the pillow as it tilts slightly from the motion. John, for his part, does not attempt to peel the pillow away from Sherlock's face. Sherlock would rather have this conversation without looking him in the eyes.

"I felt we had this settled. It appears I was wrong?"

Sherlock turns his head to a more optimal angle for speaking and grits out, "Penance. I told you everything, and I owe you penance, and you don't want it."

John rests his hand on top of Sherlock's. The pillow compresses slightly. "That's because I trust you."

"As I've said, you really shouldn't."

He can visualize John's frown, the thoughtful crease between his eyebrows as he works it out at dull, typical human speed. "You don't trust yourself."

John does not prattle on as expected. John rises with care, jostling Sherlock again but in a minimal way. Sherlock hears the weight of John's feet on the stairs, hears the squeak of John's unoiled bedside table drawer.

For a moment Sherlock's heart stops beating. He knows what lies in that drawer.

John returns with a crinkle of a plastic bag and a soft rattle of a pill bottle. A deeper thud as a steel object is placed on the table.

Sherlock, absolutely riveted, removes the pillow and turns to look at the coffee table.

John has pushed aside the tea and biscuits. Now he is recreating Sherlock's display of earlier, taking care to replicate the ordering of the objects—clearly the emotional impact has sharpened his memory. On the plate of biscuits, John places his gun. The bits of food Sherlock has eaten roil in his stomach.

John regards him with a slight frown on his face. "I don't think you want to talk," John says. What John does next is even more unexpected and brilliant and terrifying.

John opens the pill bottle, removes a handful of white tablets of zolpidem tartarate, and he swallows them with Sherlock's tea.

Sherlock leaps up, lunges at John and the rest of the pills scatter across the floor in his haste. "What are you doing?"

John sits down, his face grim. "I'm trusting you."

Sherlock feels like a fish gasping in the air. John is absolutely mad. John could not have been this mad before he met Sherlock. This situation is entirely Sherlock's fault. He's contagious.

"I'm not upset with you, Sherlock. This is to get the idea out of your system."

Sherlock wrenches John's wrist, too disoriented to know how many minutes it has been already.

"I'll probably be out within fifteen minutes." John gives a little laugh. "Assuming I don't sleepwalk. I've never taken Ambien before. I don't generally prescribe it either, due to all the side effects and potential liability. Sarah had one of hers write a terrible email to his boss-probably no worse than what you say on a daily basis- but he got fired, and another was in a car accident from sleep driving."

"And if I take some as well and go to sleep with you?" Sherlock asks hesitantly.

"You won't be able to make sure I don't do anything dangerous, should I not stay asleep, or monitor any negative effects to my respiratory system," John says. John has thought this through. John has taken a minor overdose of a hypnotic sedative for Sherlock. John is always doing stupid and dangerous things for Sherlock.

"I'm at your mercy," John says, far too lightly, and it sends a chill through Sherlock. "Do you want me down here, or should I go to my bed?"

Sherlock is still gaping. "Stay here," he manages. "In case the drug affects your balance."

John shrugs, but he is crossing his arms tightly. Sherlock glances at the gun as if it could go off on its own. He tears his eyes away and lets out a shaking breath. He puts the pillow back on the sofa, finds a blanket for John, cerulean crocheted afghan, fine microfiber acrylic wool, not cheap discount stuff, from Mrs Hudson. iAfghanistan,/i his mind begins to recite, and he forces himself to focus on the moment. John, his face strangely sad, allows himself to be tucked in. Sherlock moves to put all of the offending items back in the plastic bag, but John grips his arm. "No, they have to stay right there until I fall asleep. Those are my terms."

Sherlock feels like he is about to cry. John's face is set, resigned, and he does not react. Sherlock says, his voice gravelly, "I had only wanted you to perhaps hurt me a little. Because I deserve it. This hurts too much."

John's face breaks, and he reaches for Sherlock. Sherlock presses his face against the other man's chest, is held tighter than he can ever remember. John lets out a little gasp and pets Sherlock's hair, hard. "I trust you," John says again, and no, Sherlock does not trust himself. Why had John brought down the gun and put it on a fucking platter? Why make it any more frightening than Sherlock had already imagined?

For a moment, he sees a flash of John's head burst open, crimson soaking into his matted hair, brains splattered upon the wall, and he holds John tighter, fearful that he is saying goodbye. John's eyes shut, his breath slows, as he falls asleep.

All Sherlock has to do is stay close. All he has to do is ignore the items on the coffee table. He must become calm and avoid impulsive action.

He is reminded, ever so vividly, of a time when all of his considerable self control was directed toward avoiding looking at a syringe. He finds himself again longing for morphine with passionate intensity. He has none; he cannot leave.

Sherlock leans over, picks up the fallen pills, because he needs something to do. Several have rolled under the sofa. He finds two dead dermestid beetles and acknowledges that John was correct to spray insecticide after all. Sherlock picks an eyelash off one of the pills, John's, follicle missing, puts them back into the prescription bottle, counts them carefully. John has swallowed seven, rather more than necessary to get his point across. He places the eyelash on the table.

This is not what he had planned. John is never what he had planned. John will be fine.

Sherlock wonders how long John will sleep. A minimum of four hours. No more than eight. He sits on the hard floor next to the sofa and tries to visit his mind palace. He fails. He stands and paces. He relents and finishes the biscuits, carefully avoiding touching the pistol. Stupid to be fearful of a familiar object. Idiotic and weak. He picks it up, sets it to the side, just to prove that he can, and he throws the plate of biscuits at the wall. The shatter is satisfying. Sherlock observes the pattern of the china shards, mentally reassembles it. He steps over to the mess, grinds a large piece with his heel, estimates the percentage that has turned to fine dust. He picks up another shard, pokes at the skin of his fingertips with it. He regards the drop of blood darkly, when John makes a small sound from the couch.

Sherlock rushes to his side, heart fluttering in his throat.

John has merely shifted in his sleep, is perfectly fine.

Sherlock paces again. He googles to see if any drugs will counteract the zolpidem, considers how long it would take to procure various stimulants, discounts the idea as altogether too risky. He starts to send a text to Lestrade, to see if any interesting murders have occurred, remembers that he can't leave.

After seventy-two minutes, Sherlock is thoroughly bored. It really is rather longer he would he would have lasted in the past. He sits next to John, shoving his left arm aside, and begins to speak. "I am not sure what you intended me to do during this time. If you can hear me, I would appreciate some advice."

John does not stir.

"John, I have already passed from the feelings of anxiety to anger to boredom. I even ate. I moved the gun. I have not hurt you. You can wake up now."

Well, it was worth a try.

He watches the slow movement of John's chest as his lungs expand and contract. He takes John's pulse, notes it. Tedious. How John can stand to work in such a dull profession is beyond him. He watches John's face, every expression already so carefully committed to his memory, and his heart aches. He presses a kiss to John's forehead.

Other than his respiration, John is so still. Sherlock looks at all the fine lines of his face. He has time to catalog every faint scar of John's childhood. He unbuttons Johns sleeves and discovers a rather interesting one, self inflicted with a dull knife, in the crook of John's left arm, which oddly mirrors one of his own from childhood. He counts every remaining eyelash and places his hand over John's heart. The tightness in his lungs eases. He presses his ear to John's chest, closes his eyes and lets the sound of John's heartbeat fill his world.

After a time, he realizes he is avoiding his fear. Sherlock scratches at his scalp, swallows hard and he looks at the objects on the table. The pillow is already set to its proper use, cradling John's head. The pills are already acting in John's bloodstream. He picks up a 25 cm nail, detects a burr near the point. Cheaply made iron, but they would do the job. He turns over John's limp wrist, caresses the blue blood arteries for a moment, follows the ulnar up to that curious scar on John's elbow. He drags the nail back down, leaving a faint pink trail. Sherlock takes in a shaky breath, presses the thick nail point in the vulnerable hollow of John's wrists, between the scaphoid and lunate. He finds he can't bear the idea of breaking the skin. He replaces it on the coffee table, trembling.

He refuses to put the bag over John's head. He replaces the three nails inside, deliberately punctures the corner, so that is no longer airtight, which curiously calms him. He picks up his leatherman multi-tool knife next, flips open to the clip point blade. His hands are still shaking as he touches it to John's radial artery. He has a new, vivid and three dimensional understanding of the concept of hesitation cuts. He leaves the blade there for the count of thirty then presses it to his own wrist, where it feels more at home. He counts, tips the blade to leave a little nick behind, just enough to remind him. He replaces the knife in its notch on the mantle.

Sherlock puts on his black gloves, tries the synthetic gut core A string around his own neck, finds the tension adequate but lacking in length for proper leverage and a bit slick unrosined. John has already settled the strangulation issue with his highly effective headlock, at any rate. As the string has already been replaced, he throws it away in the kitchen. Touching it makes him want to play his violin, but he is in the middle of something fucking critical, and he must not distract himself. He tosses the gloves at the front door.

And there sits the real issue on the table, the gun. What had John imagined Sherlock would do with it? Is he meant to scoff and ignore it? John knows Sherlock is proficient in its use. Sherlock regards the pistol, Sig Sauer P226R.

"How many people have you killed, John?" he whispers, and his breath stirs the other's hair. He fancies he can see John breathing in the same air, swirling like the mist at the base of Sherlock's palace, that had just escaped Sherlock's own lungs. "Did you grieve for them?" John was good, of course he did. Every one of them, even the ones who were not very nice or not good cabbies at all.

He grips the gun. It's entirely too easy to press it to his own skull, cold hard pressure against his temple. Of course, that method is not guaranteed, hands shake, as his are now. He sniffs the scents of gun oil, metal. He opens his mouth and finds he cannot place it inside, cannot even touch the tip of his curious tongue to it.

Now for the truly difficult part. He points it squarely at John's forehead. He forces himself to look directly at the prone figure, vulnerable. _"I trust you, Sherlock."_ What had he ever done to earn that trust?

He truly allows himself to imagine the loss of John. It rushes in, fills him until his eyes are burning and his shoulders are shaking, and the sound of water rushes in his ears. His heart is shattered into painful pieces that insinuate themselves in his lungs. He cannot breathe. His fingernails dig into his palms. A spasm folds him in half, and he stays there riding waves of nauseous fear. He pushes the pistol under the sofa next to the dermestid beetles.

He finds himself begging John to wake up. He sobs until he falls asleep on the other man's chest.

John stirs, yawns, and smiles at Sherlock.

"You look terrible," John says. "I'll make some tea."

"I ate the biscuits," Sherlock says automatically.

John glances around, squints at the shattered plate against the wall. "Yes, I see that." John observes that the table has been cleared. He observes that he is unscathed, the faded pink line on his right arm imperceptible to the average naked eye. John observes the small cuts on Sherlock's fingertips from the broken china. He observes the small nick on Sherlock's wrist over the radial artery, the crescent gouges in his palms, and waits for Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock swallows, his voice coming out stiff. "It appears I was quite wrong. You will be the death of _me,_ John Watson. I deeply apologize for my cavalier attitude about your life. You are infinitely precious to me, irreplacable-"

John cuts him off with a bone-crushing hug. "I know that, you idiot. I feel the same way about you."

After a long moment, Sherlock wonders why piecing a broken heart back together is as painful as rending it apart.

"Now," John says. "What did you do all this time? You stayed right here?"

"I didn't leave for an instant."

"I appear to be whole and intact," John observes.

"You are the most cracked doctor I have ever laid eyes upon," Sherlock says.

John bursts out in laughter, and his face crinkles beautifully. "Thank you. That's the finest compliment you've ever paid me." He notes his mussed shirtsleeves, sees that his trouser zipper is untouched. Sherlock had examined his arms, chest, and lower legs but had avoided his more private areas.

John teases, "I didn't forbid you from having any fun with me."

Sherlock stutters, "That hadn't occurred to me at all."

John covers his laugh by pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Are you sorted now, or are you still feeling guilty and contrite?"

"John..." Sherlock begins, then regards the other man. John Watson is a madman of a killer and healer made just for him. He starts to babble an apology but settles with, very cautiously, "Did you have any other ideas?"

John goes upstairs, returns with another assortment of items, just as riveting. Sherlock's riding crop-that's where it had gone to!- a boning knife of Middle Eastern origin, curiously well used, a padded blindfold, a ball gag, zip ties, and a length of hemp rope. How he located these items so quickly is surprising to Sherlock. He has clearly prepared in advance for this as well.

Sherlock removes his shirt and kneels on the floor and looks up into John's eyes. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." he says.


	5. Chapter 5

John picks up the riding crop, hesitates.

"I've sterilized it," Sherlock offers helpfully. Actually he replaced it entirely after that accident with the overripe corpse, but John doesn't need to know the details of that.

John gazes up at him, still somehow looking tired.

"Fine. Think of all the times I frustrated you."

"Infuriated," John corrects. "You infuriate me, you impossible wanker."

Sherlock smiles. "There's a good start." He gives his most charming smile.

John rolls his eyes.

Sherlock gazes at the coffee table, tilts his head, considering. He scoops up the lot and leads the way to John's bedroom. It is, after all, the most hygienic room in the flat. He tosses the items on the bed and flops next to them on his stomach, waiting for orders.

"Take off your clothes first," the army captain says.

Sherlock hops up. He was deliberately careless picking up the boning knife. Four fingertips of his right hand are bleeding—not so badly as to spoil his violin playing for more than three days, but enough that John should notice. And he does.

"You stupid-" he sputters and he unbuttons Sherlock's silk shirt himself. "Someday you are going to die in a purely idiotic manner, and I won't be there to save you from yourself."

"You'll always be there, John," Sherlock whispers, pitching his voice low and blowing behind John's ear, the little hairs stirring and eliciting a soft moan. He presses his hand to John's neck, leaving red fingerprints behind, and his stomach tightens and head grows light.

"You go flouncing off without me all the time."

"I do not flounce."

John growls, seizes the ball gag. "Shut up and listen to me," he says.

Sherlock has been gagged before, with cotton cloth, polyester cloth, and some ineffective hemp rope that left prickles in his tongue as he wriggled free of it. Somehow John seems to relish the process more than all the criminals who had inflicted it upon him in the past. Then John moves to his wrists and ankles, more proficient with the zip ties than Sherlock had expected. Lastly he applies the blindfold.

Sherlock is nude, bound, on his side in John's bed, bleeding slightly on John's flannel sheets. He senses John looming above him. "Now I have your undivided attention. This suicidal behavior will desist immediately. You are _mine,_ Sherlock Holmes, and I will do with you as I see fit."

Sherlock momentarily tries to speak. It comes out as a muffled whimper.

"You had your turn. This is mine. Yes, I had a lovely rest earlier. Completely wasted my day off, you mad git. I did have other plans for you."

Sherlock turns his head in John's direction, beseechingly.

"I wanted to make sure you still had time to go to the morgue, but..."

Sherlock automatically tries to rise, but then feels the crack of the riding crop on his shoulder. Heat rises on his skin, blossoms, spreads to his spine. He sags to the mattress, draws in a hissing breath around the gag, his face crushed to the pillow.

"Stay still or I will tie you to the bedposts. You aren't going anywhere today. Maybe not tomorrow either. You are going to stay here until you forget about everything but me."

The riding crop lands again, and Sherlock curls around himself, trying to scowl, but the bloody gag gets in the way of that as well. Then it lands again, and again, and Sherlock is withdrawing into himself, his brain buzzing distantly along with the hum in his skin. He cannot feel the pilled flannel under his skin. He cannot feel the zipties biting into his ankles and wrists. All he senses is the bright flash behind his eyes when the pain hits, and his mind is so blissfully silent.

John presses his hands to Sherlock's chest, and the effect grounds him, pushes him back into his body, into his bruising skin, and somehow through the touch, he can sense John's entire soul.

Then the room is silent. Sherlock cannot hear John breathing. He is alone. He wonders if he's meant to escape. No, he's meant to be obedient. He waits, waits, loses track of time.

He smells the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, feels it splash along his abused back, the odor making his eyes water. He holds back an unwelcome sob.

John says conversationally, "I'd take out the gag, but you'll want it for what's next." Sherlock's heart skips a beat. John is giving extra attention to cleaning Sherlock's chest, a place that he has curiously avoided contact with during the flogging.

Then Sherlock is shoved to the side, wrists twisted under his back. He feels cold steel on the thin skin over his heart, and he understands.

Where the riding crop's pain was dull and diffuse, the knife lights up his brain like fireworks. All of Sherlock's considerable awareness is narrowed down to a few square centimeters of skin. A curve, a line. Three more lines. All of London is gone. In all the world is only Sherlock, John, and the knife.

John is carving "JW" into his skin. Sherlock moans behind the gag.

John says, "Hmm," wipes away the blood. John pours on another layer of alcohol, and Sherlock's skin is on fire with pain. It slowly evaporates. He finds himself starting to tremble quite against his will.

A tearing noise, a crinkle, and John begins dressing the wound. John clicks his tongue, and Sherlock can imagine him shaking his head at a clumsy patient.

But now Sherlock is shaking violently, as if fever wracked. "Shh," John soothes, removing the ball bag. Sherlock swallows hard and inhales deeply.

"It will pass," John assures him, and he removes the blindfold. The room is blindingly bright. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, ducks his head and bites his lip until it bleeds. His brain is empty as with morphine. The knife cuts away the zip ties, electrifying his skin with its touch. John places a blanket on him, soft (not the orange one, thank god), but it catches against the edges of his bandage and tugs slightly.

Sherlock's mouth manages to say, "Fuck," and he collapses against John.

John holds him until the shaking stops. Then John obliges, slipping out of his clothes.

John has enjoyed himself, his cock at full attention. He stretches Sherlock gently and pushes in, and every nerve in Sherlock's body is alive again. The fog in his head intensifies. His ears are buzzing, and lights are flashing under his closed eyelids. John thrusts again and again and the lights explode, and they fall, convulsing against each other, clutching each other as if drowning.

Sherlock goes completely boneless as John gently rubs his hair. After ages, John rises to dress, leaving Sherlock alone in the darkening room.

A knock comes from downstairs. Sherlock hears John answer and the soft sound of Mrs Hudson's voice. Sherlock strains to listen.

John is transformed once again into small, innocent, convincingly normal John. Not at all the man who would carve his initials with an Afghanistani boning knife into his lover's chest. "Oh that? So sorry, we were having a little domestic earlier. Yes, he will buy you a new platter. _I'll ensure it."_ There is still Sherlock's blood on John's neck, dried and brown, but doubtless Mrs Hudson would not notice.

Sherlock laughs in his throat and rolls over, sore and blank and so very, very contented.


	6. Chapter 6

PART SIX, in which something horrible occurs and reality must be faced.

–

"Bored!" Sherlock exclaims and looks at John expectantly.

John, at his laptop, blinks in a long suffering way that speaks volumes to Sherlock, and he begins typing more slowly in response.

"John, I said I'm BORED!"

"I understood that, Sherlock," he says mildly. "I'm busy. You'll have to find something to do."

Sherlock throws his head back in frustration and stalks over to John, sitting at his feet. He cranes his neck to catch John's eye. John studiously ignores him. Finally Sherlock seizes both of John's wrists and pulls him away from the screen.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock tries not to flinch, smiles his best innocent smile. "You need a rest to prevent repetitive stress injury." Yes, John will be swayed by that reason. John is a doctor. Even though John insists it's impossible to die of boredom.

John expertly twists his wrists toward Sherlock's thumbs and frees himself. "Find someone else to bother."

Sherlock lets out a whimper, but the doctor is unswayed. He gives a calculated smirk and heads to the stairs.

Without even turning his head, John bellows, "NO GUNS!"

Sherlock turns back, growls and throws himself on the sofa. Momentarily he hops back and begins digging among the built up piles of post for the lighter on the mantle.

"No chance you would respond to a few of those, would you?" John asks.

Sherlock holds the lighter below a fistful of utility bills. "NO FIRES!" John says.

Sherlock stomps the paper until the tiny fire extinguishes, charring the rug, and sighs dramatically. He looks toward the kitchen. John also would not approve of Sherlock's attempts to convert ergot spores into a gaseous compound. He has been quite clear about not developing biological warfare in the house. Sherlock groans and clenches his fists. "Hit me."

"I'm busy."

"Either you hit me now or I'll do something to annoy you." Like use the ergot, he thinks, considering which one of them to use it on. It might make John less bloody boring.

"I'm already long past annoyed," John says, and it's starting to show in his voice.

"I've only just begun." Sherlock smirks.

John slams down the lid of his laptop, eyes glinting.

Sherlock actually finds himself taking a step backwards. John looks angry enough to shoot Sherlock, which was really not the goal in distracting him. Not at all. Fortunately, John picks up the laptop and slams the door to the flat. His phone is still on the mantle.

Sherlock screws up his face and lets out a sigh. At least John is no longer here to stop him from entertaining himself.

After an hour of consideration, Sherlock concedes that John was right that manipulation of noxious gases requires a large fume hood. This is evidenced by the fact that his eyes and throat are burning. Fortunately this is a test without the bright red ergot powder or he might also be hallucinating at this point. Perhaps not, as he had attempted to develop a tolerance in the distant past. The process of eyewashing is boring but necessary. He decides to test his vision in the most entertaining way possible and borrows John's Sig.

He aims at the yellow spray painted face, attempts to hit a previous hole. Really, he has reinforced the wall with concrete, behind the hideous wallpaper, so it's stupid for John or Mrs Hudson to complain. He walks up close, checks, and finds that his aim was miserable, nine and a half centimeters outside the target. He ought to take a break for another eyewash. Instead he opens the windows, damn the neighbor's complaints, and he aims again. It's quite likely that he will be in a dangerous situation with low visibility in the future, and he really should practice without looking at all.

It is at this point that the door opens. He hasn't heard the steps on the stairs. Sherlock whirls around, startled.

And the gun goes off.

Sherlock's brain is saying, "Fuck, fuck, fuck" in an infinite loop but somehow his mouth isn't working. His body is moving slowly as if through water, and he sees up close that his worst nightmare has come to life. John is on the floor, laptop case and Tesco bag fallen beside him, and John's chest is covered in blood.

Sherlock has shot John, and John is not moving.

Sherlock's throat lets out a strangled scream. His body thrashes out, his hands compress the wound. John's phone is not in his pocket. He needs to find a phone, but how can he apply pressure and call at the same time? He staggers back, unable to look away from the image of John's face draining of color, eyes closed, dark rimmed. He rushes to the mantle, smearing John's blood everywhere and he dials 999 with one hand. It takes ages to ring, and John's chest is making a terrifying sucking noise now. His voice is unrecognizable as his own as he says, "John shot. 221B Baker Street, help." He throws down the phone, still connected, and he hears the screen crack. John's blood is frothing now, and his lips are blue, and it is so, so wrong that Sherlock's brain short circuits for a moment. He must apply pressure. Keep applying pressure. No, there's something else he should do. His eyes alight on the Tesco bag, and he dumps out the contents, finds the box of plastic cling wrap. It shreds crookedly in his hands, but he presses the plastic against John's chest, tries his best to seal the horrifyingly wrong hole, trapping the air inside where it so desperately belongs.

John's heartbeat is faint, and Sherlock's is trembling its way out of his chest, and he would tear it out and give it to John if he could. Where the bloody hell is the ambulance he called for? Why has no one come? Everyone knows gunshots are the fastest way to contact the police.

Finally he hears the sound of sirens. And then he sees the gun again, on the bloodied rug next to them, and it fully hits him.

Sherlock has shot John Watson. And it doesn't really matter that it was an accident. No one will believe the freak. Even if John recovers, even if Sherlock somehow isn't sent to prison, Sherlock's life is over. There is no possible way that John will stay. And he shouldn't, because Sherlock is insane and contagious. Because everything he touches is corrupted with death.

Sherlock whispers hoarsely, "John, if you can hear me, I am so so sorry. You have no idea-" His voice fails.

And Sherlock lets go of the wound, knowing that John will soon be safe in the hands of paramedics, places the gun in his own mouth. He has closed his lips (the barrel still warm) around the taste of steel and gun oil just as Lestrade bursts in the door.

"What the holy fuck!" Lestrade bursts out, and he wrenches the pistol from Sherlock. Lestrade engages the safety and shoves it down his pants. Hardly procedure, Sherlock thinks dimly, should be bagged and catalogued and checked for prints.

"I'm not even going to ask what happened, Sherlock. The paramedics are on their way."

Now Lestrade is applying pressure to the bloodied disaster area that used to be John's chest, and it should be Sherlock's hands there. He lets out a snarl and shoves the officer out of the way. Lestrade is still talking, but it's beyond Sherlock's ability to understand words at this point. When the paramedics arrive and place an oxygen mask on John's face, Sherlock blacks out.

He is hearing voices from such a long distance. Something about surgery, bullet removed, no exit wound, missed heart and spine but punctured lung. He thinks he hears his brother's voice, gentle and low. John is in recovery. Sherlock has no bloody idea where he is.

When he opens his eyes, his head hurts so badly that he examines the back of his skull to make sure he hadn't pulled the trigger on himself after all. He is in a hospital room, and he is in a bed next to John, somehow, impossibly, as if someone knew that proximity was the only thing keeping Sherlock alive. He senses Mycroft's hand at work.

He climbs out of the bed, sits at John's side. A chair with scratchy, ugly grey upholstery has already been moved close by. Someone has been sitting watch beside John in Sherlock's rightful place. John has an enormous bandage on his chest, but he is now breathing without that hideous sound.

The someone reappears along with a group of other Yard officers. Sherlock clenches John's fingers, presses his head to the sheets. He feels dizzy and so deeply ashamed. He tries to shut them out.

The voices grow louder, and they are talking about him now. Lestrade says, "When have you ever known him to be silent?"

Donovan says, "He's clearly on something. Didn't they check him when he was admitted?"

And Sherlock would want to throttle her, except that he can't lift his arms, and his hands are locked around the fingers of John's left hand, in a sort of premature rigor mortis.

His soul was bleeding out, and no one seemed to notice.

He feels Lestrade squeeze his shoulder. Eventually they leave. Sherlock wonders dimly why he is not under arrest.

The room grows dark, and Sherlock senses nurses and doctors enter and exit, and Sherlock is only aware of the incessant beep of the heart monitor. One nurse tries to extricate Sherlock as she checks John's IV, but she is unsuccessful. Someone decides Sherlock is harmless and lets him stay in his spot.

Harmless. That was fucking hilarious. Sherlock chokes down a laugh because he knows it will sound utterly cracked and be impossible to stop once he starts.

Late that night Sherlock is disturbed by urgent alarms and a rush of nurses. John's respiration has dropped too low, and Sherlock's own breathing stops sympathetically. He is terrified for a moment, but then the attendant explains kindly, "He's only in very deep sleep. See, it's rising again." Sherlock looks at her blankly and lowers his head next to John's arm again.

Hours, days, years pass. Sherlock has no idea how long. He only knows that his transport is malfunctioning and even his palace seems to be inaccessible. This had happened only once before, years ago, in the time before John, when he had overdosed on cocaine. Sherlock's heart had tried to burst out of his chest at that time as well, and skin had burned with fever. Sherlock acutely remembers the way he tried to tear out his IV stent and he very gently moves his fingers over John's, smoothing a wrinkle in the tape.

John's eyelids flutter open. His eyes are unfocused. Sherlock manages to open his mouth to say, "John, as soon as you are well, run. Run away from me."

John looks confused, and it hurts so badly that Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows his sob.

Just as well. John has gone back to sleep.

In the morning, Lestrade is there again. Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes still blurred either from exhaustion or noxious gas exposure. His back does not seem to want to straighten so he doesn't try to rise.

Lestrade touches Sherlock's shoulder. It sends an annoying prickling sensation to his spine. "Your brother explained everything, Sherlock. The firearm was under special permit from his office. It was a misfire, only an accident."

"He explained?" Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Are you quite certain there was not some form of blackmail involved?"

Lestrade swallowed. "Slightly? Something about reallocating federal funds away from our department." Lestrade kneels down. "Look, I know you like to have firing practice in your flat. I think I can figure out what happened."

Sherlock steels himself.

"For my part, I'm not giving the gun back, but this is off the official record. As far as I'm concerned, you've been punished enough. This is between you and John now. I'm sure he'll have words with you soon enough." Lestrade tips his head toward the bed, and Sherlock jolts. John is now fully conscious and watching the two of them. Lestrade backs respectfully out the door.

John is silent as he looks Sherlock over. His hand reaches for the call button, and Sherlock's heart stops. John is about to have him removed, he fears, and Sherlock doesn't have the gun anymore, so there isn't even an efficient way to-

The nurse enters. "Get this man on lactated ringers immediately," John says to her. "Don't you recognize severe dehydration when you see it? He clearly hasn't eaten or drunk anything in days."

The nurse must know John, and perhaps this has something to do with Mycroft as well, because she does what he orders. Sherlock wants to protest but he finds he can't even stand properly. He falls as her hands try to guide him to the other bed in the room. Another set of hands help him up, and his eyes are locked on John's, which are professional, inscrutable. He is too dazed to feel the needle inserted into his hands. The only thing he can think is that if John hated him, he wouldn't be getting medical help for him at this time.

Unless he wanted Sherlock to suffer longer.

But no, that wasn't John. Sherlock is the one who steps on the chest of bleeding cabbies and tortures them for information. John is strong, but John is never cruel. Sherlock closes his eyes again, but no tears can come.


	7. Chapter 7

Aftermath and Tears

A few hours later, Sherlock is still stuck in a hospital bed, while John is making his first attempts to leave his, with the help of the nurses. They encourage him to move around with care, to exercise his newly repaired lung, and John allows them to escort him to the chair by Sherlock's bed.

"I truly hope that this is the pinnacle of the most spectacularly fucking irresponsible things you have ever done and will ever do. I cannot handle any more," John says. He pauses. "I have to think I am missing something. I didn't just startle you when I came home. You looked dazed."

"I couldn't see properly," Sherlock admits.

"You couldn't-"

"I had been experimenting with the ergot gas, and my eyes were burning."

John's eyes glint with fury. "So you were under the influence of psychoactive drugs."

Sherlock grimaces. "No. There was no ergot suspended in it yet, just a benign type of fungus as a test."

"So you shot me due to sheer ignorance, not psychoactive drugs."

"Which do you think is worse?" Sherlock asks, curious despite himself.

John shakes his head, and his expression vascillates between impending tears and laughter. "Un-fucking-believable. When Mycroft said you were a battlefield, I didn't reckon I should take him literally."

"Lestrade said he won't give the gun back," Sherlock tells him.

John sighs. "I liked that gun. I'll get another somehow, I suppose. Any reason you didn't hide it?"

"I was busy trying to help you."

"Yes, I heard you sealed the chest wound. Saved my life. Ta."

Sherlock goes on, as long as he is confessing things. "Lestrade took the gun because I had it in my mouth."

John goes dead white, the same color as during his blood loss.

"I wish they'd given you my blood," Sherlock says, trying to move on.

"You're too fucking thin and you're anemic," John says. "They couldn't take any. You had none to spare."

Sherlock shrivels, feeling as he did in childhood when his father told him he always did everything wrong, while he tried so hard to be good.

John enunciates slowly, "You put the gun in your mouth?"

"I waited until I heard the sirens. I had to keep you safe first."

"You put the gun in your mouth."

Sherlock ducks his head.

"You-" John seems about to repeat it again but stops himself. "Am I to assume you meant to pull the trigger on purpose that time?"

"Yes," Sherlock manages, feeling as if a stone block is crushing his chest. "I was so sorry."

"And thought you being dead would make me feel better," John bites out.

Sherlock cannot think of a response to that.

"You fucking immature- For you, suicide is just the ultimate way of avoiding responsibility, isn't it?" John slams down his hand, and his food tray clatters. "I don't know how you avoided suicide watch after that stunt, but I ought to have you sectioned."

"It wasn't a stunt; I meant it!" Sherlock blurts out. John looks even worse, is now shaking slightly. Sherlock wonders if he should call the nurse. More quietly, he continues, "I haven't hurt myself since. I had to stay with you."

"You didn't eat or drink. You landed yourself an IV, didn't you?"

"I couldn't. I wasn't functioning correctly. I couldn't speak either."

"I think I remember something you said, something about running from you." John rubs his face, hard, smoothing down the stubble that is almost a beard by now. "I'm not ready to forgive you just yet," he says, "but god help me, I probably will, because I know in my heart you mean well."

"Please don't section me," Sherlock whispers. "Please."

"I didn't really mean that."

"Yes you did. And Father used to say that when I was small, but Mycroft and Mummy-" The tears finally caught up to Sherlock, now fully hydrated. "It's a waste," he mumbles to himself. "From the IV bag, into my veins, and straight out of my eyes. Wasted."

John's face crumples, and now he is crying too, and he brushes his fingers through Sherlock's tangled hair.

"When you were dying, I thought I would never speak again," Sherlock says. "Nothing mattered but you. I wanted so badly to die, and I deserve it. If I admit responsibility now, and I still die, does that fix it properly?"

"Oh god," John sobs. "I don't want you to die. I want us to be happy."

"You deserve to be happy. You'll find someone. The evening nurse is infatuated with you." Sherlock's lips are shaking as he kisses John's hands.

John's voice cracks. "I want you. Only you, you lunatic. I won't be happy without you, and I'd rather be shot and be with you than be alone. But if you ever do that again-"

"Which part?" Sherlock asks. Clarifying is critical at this point.

"Any of it, you unbelievable idiot. Gas or target practice or suicide attempts. Any of it, I'll-"

"What?"

"It will break my heart," John says, and he suddenly is so small and fragile. Sherlock wraps his arms around him, mindful of the bandage and their IV lines. "What you did was fucking idiotic, but you did your best to fix it. What I want you to do, Sherlock, is live for me, not die for me. Stay with me."

Sherlock looks down at their fingers entwined together, and like a jolt to his brain, the world twists violently back into focus and the data comes cascading back. The colours are so vivid where he didn't even realize they had been grey. The sounds sharpen, the fluorescent lights make that irritating hum, and he hears dozens of little beeps and the traffic on the street below, and he can feel the heat of John's skin against his own and the texture of his callouses. Sherlock sees that John's dried brown blood is still under his fingernails and cuticles and in the creases of his palms, and it must have been everywhere before, but it's flaked off by now. He realizes that he wearing in a hospital gown, too many scratchy seams and awkwardly open and drafty in the rear, and his ruined suit is nowhere to be seen. He smells the odors of ammonia and isopropyl alcohol and of a hot meal (rye bread, sage sausage, fried potatoes seasoned with a bit of garlic) drifting from down the hall, and he becomes bitingly hungry. John blazes into full colour, his eyes so deep Sherlock feels he is falling in them, and they hold each other as tight as they can without damaging John's stitches.

John reaches under Sherlock's gown, traces the scarred letters "JW" over Sherlock's heart, and Sherlock sobs. John had done that, just for Sherlock, sacrificed so much of his love and sanity to make Sherlock happy, and Sherlock had repaid him with a bullet wound to the chest in very nearly the same spot, had nearly killed them both simply because he was bored. "I'm sorry," he whispers, over and over, and he hopes some day it will be enough. He hopes some day he can be enough for John.

Something inside of him breaks, and then something else heals, and he is whole again. He knows it will be difficult, even heartrending and torturous at times, but in the end, everything will be just fine.

The End.

Thank you so much for all of the comments and encouragement!


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